


but why did Foucault eat all that marmalade

by forochel



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis acquire a Marius, tech a post-modern experimental Brechtian sequel to Les Mis called BARRICADES, and Enjolras and Grantaire sort some things out along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but why did Foucault eat all that marmalade

**Author's Note:**

> Since I have a thesis due in three weeks, obviously what I do is write a ridiculously niche theatrical technical production AU instead. The lovely thelifemusical and bysine have looked over this for me and told me the technical jargon is either self-explanatory in the text or scans without disruption, but I have added links and a glossary where I couldn't find links just in case. Also, insert general disclaimer here.

A week after the start of term, everyone is milling around the Workshop chatting idly and trying not to intimidate the freshers. This goes on for a while before Enjolras blows in through the door with a gust of chilly autumnal wind. He immediately draws the eye, in his red coat and the semi-permanent look of frustration on his face.

“RIGHT,” Enjolras says loudly, letting his book bag fall with a _thump_ to the floor next to him. “IS EVERYONE HERE?”

There’s a general murmur of “yeeee-eees?” as everyone looks around. 

“Um,” some young thing pipes up nervously, “Is this Musical Theatre?” 

Enjolras stares him down; there is a distinct chill in the air. Someone -- a few someones -- laugh derisively. 

“No,” Enjolras says. “This is not.” 

“They’re probably in the Union,” Courfeyrac says kindly, “two streets over. They’ll be the ones dancing with some form of coordination. Possibly singing. And not naked, those’ll be Rugby.” 

“Okay,” the young thing says, and edges towards the door. “Uh, what is this?”

“We make shows happen,” Enjolras says. “We’re the Technical Production Society.” 

“Though people who know about us just call us The Amis,” Courfeyrac adds. “Because we’re your friends! If you’re nice to us.”

“Okay,” the young thing says again, and gives an awkward wave. “Thanks! Bye!”

There’s a wave of laughter once the door shuts behind him.

“Settle down,” Enjolras tells everyone. “I’ve just come from a meeting about this term’s shows, it was annoyingly last minute, but anyway. We’re doing drama, musical, and the panto this term.”

There’s a general groan. 

“The panto isn’t even the worst of it. Someone decided to write a post-modern experimental Brechtian sequel to Les Mis called BARRICADES. For some reason it got approved.”

Hesitantly, Combeferre asks, “Is that ... the musical?” 

“No, but there’s still a score and singing in it. The musical-musical is Hair. In an impressive move towards diversity for their society.” 

“Unless they go with blackface,” Grantaire points out gloomily. “Which I wouldn’t be surprised by.”

“Valjean will kick them out of the theatre if they do that, I’m pretty sure,” Enjolras says. “And we could boycott the show.” 

“Wait,” Bahorel says. “So this ... barricades ... thing is the play? Jesus, I’m not doing that one.”

  


*

  
No one wants to touch it. Not when there’s _Hair_ to work on.

“This is Marius,” Courfeyrac announces the next week. “He’s living with me because he didn’t get his accommodation form in on time. In return for that, he is working on the play.”

“Hi,” Marius says weakly. He looks slightly terrified. “Uh, I’ve never done any tech before.”

“Marius!” Enjolras says, ignoring his latter statement. “You are going to be my assistant production manager, because Combeferre is a medic and has only committed to stage managing.” 

“Uh,” Marius says. “Okay?” 

“You poor fool,” Joly says as he walks past. 

“Someone’s got to do it,” Enjolras replies loftily.

“Which is of course why Enjolras is doing this instead of _Hair_ ,” Courfeyrac tells Marius, who just looks bewildered. “Though he’s also a nerd about French political history and a glutton for punishment, so really he’s the best choice.”

“Oh!” Marius’s eyes light up. “I’m taking a course on Napoleon --” he stops when Courfeyrac crosses his arms frantically in the universal gesture for “STOP”.

“Bigger fan of Lamarque,” Enjolras says, “though Napoleon’s code is interesting in terms of its legal ramifications. More importantly right now is whether you’re free on Thursday afternoon for a production meeting.” 

“I think so?” Marius looks like he’s finally starting to understand what he’s got himself into. 

“I’ll be there too,” Courfeyrac says comfortingly. “We can go together.”

“Good man,” says Enjolras, and strides off to go talk to his sound designer, who’s leaning against the wall and sipping at his hip flask.

  


*

  
Two things happen at the production meeting:

1\. They get their scripts, which is a nice surprise. The content of the scripts ... not so much.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Grantaire asks, looking wild-eyed as he scans through the script after Enjolras gives it to him on Friday. “I need a drink to deal with this.”

"Fucking Christ, this is never going to work," he says a while later, stabbing at the script with his pen. “I really need a drink.” 

2\. Marius falls head over heels in love with the director. He spends most of the meeting gazing at her in puppy-eyed adoration.

“She’s so ... amazing,” he says wistfully. “Is she a second year? Do you think she’ll go out on a date with me?”

“No fraternising with the production team, fresher,” Courfeyrac says, though he looks amused. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and presses on through the post-lecture crowd that’s filling up the Union bar.

  


*

  
A week later, the seats in the Workshop are in the round and Enjolras is standing on a braked flight case, demanding a set designer.

“You don’t even have any set for Hair,” he points out furiously to Bahorel. “Just let me have Joly.”

“Joly’s a fourth year medic,” Joly points out mildly. “Joly is also doing sound for Hair and that is all Joly can do.”

“Wait, who’s doing on-stage sound for Hair, then?” Combeferre asks. 

Everyone looks incredulously at Grantaire. 

“He’s got dirt on me,” Grantaire says.

“You need an assistant,” Jehan says. “Both of you.”

“I have a friend who might be interested,” Marius says hesitantly. “Um.” 

“Marius,” Courfeyrac declares proudly, “You’re getting the hang of it already!”

  


*

  
Marius’s friend turns out to be Eponine, whom Enjolras vaguely recognises as being from his department.

“You didn’t say I’d be doing _two_ musicals, Marius,” she says accusingly. 

“It’s not really a musical, and I’m helping out with it! With both of them!” Marius says. “Please help.”

Grantaire just watches them over his Irish coffee. 

“It has a score,” she jabs at the libretto, “and songs in it. Ridiculously surreal songs. I don’t even know what key this is in.” 

“ _Please_ ,” Marius begs, “I will buy you so much coffee.”

The puppy eyes are working; Eponine softens. “Okay, fine.” 

“Great,” Enjolras says. “When can you meet the music director?”

  


*

  
As a set designer has still failed to appear, Combeferre reluctantly takes it on. Enjolras and Combeferre get back from the set meeting looking uneasy. They’re in the workshop to see how much timber has remained from the last season, and Grantaire’s in there watching Courfeyrac and Marius choose [gel colours](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/Gel).

"They want a climbable barricade," Enjolras starts and continues talking over Grantaire’s groan. "And flying backdrops. Lots of backdrops."

Combeferre adds, "They asked if it could rain blood."

“And a recreation of the Rue Saint-Martin,” Enjolras finishes.

"They want us to die," Grantaire says bleakly. "Also, has anyone seen the [moongel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moongel)?"

"Stop being so pessimistic, Grantaire," Enjolras says sharply. "We worked out that we could probably just do a façade front for some steel deck and get Feuilly to paint it --"

"Feuilly's actually working now," Grantaire pointed out.

"He affiliated to the Union," Enjolras says dismissively.

"You paint too, R," Jehan says brightly, who’s in to coordinate lighting rigs with Courfeyrac, since he’s light designing for _Hair_.

Grantaire darts a glance at Enjolras, who looks ... expressionless.

“Not this kind of thing,” Grantaire demurs. “Unless you want a surrealist barricade.”

“That would not be a bad idea,” Enjolras says thoughtfully. “Can you do it?”

In the face of his expectant gaze, Grantaire capitulates.

  


*

  
It’s a bit of a scramble, but wood gets ordered the week before they start building set. Enjolras has apologetic meetings with his tutors and course coordinators. Combeferre does strange and esoteric things in the labs for his dissertation so “the samples can incubate while I’m building this thing.” Enjolras rallies the troops to his side via (1) a passionate speech at the weekly meeting; (2) passionate mass emails; and (3) passionate personal texts.

A phalanx of freshers turn up the day the wood arrives to help carry the lengths of timber and sheets of plywood into the Workshop. Enjolras wrangles them into staying to help out with the build for the rest of the day. Absolutely no one is surprised at all.

  


*

  
Enjolras trusts Grantaire to go to a sound meeting by himself that day.

“I have to be with the set,” Enjolras says intensely. “Grantaire, don’t fuck this up.”

He’d been ready to make a sober go of it, but now Enjolras has said that, obviously Grantaire has to turn up half-drunk and then spends the entire meeting making increasingly overt jabs at the music director.

It ends in tears on the MD's part and Grantaire being unrepentant "because he's an idiot".

"They wanted a full orchestra with a half pit, E,” Grantaire slurs over the phone.

“What the fuck did you say to him, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, hard and angry. “I trust you to do _one fucking thing_.”

“Jesus, I don’t even remember,” Grantaire replies. He doesn’t, he really doesn’t; his brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool. The only thing getting through is the sharpness of Enjolras’s fury. 

“You don’t --” Enjolras makes a high pitched noise of rage. “I sent you to go find out what they want, not to completely antagonise the entire fucking production team.”

“Hey, I have a list of --”

“And if you weren’t going to contribute, fine, but you can’t fuck with my production.”

“Whoa,” Grantaire struggles up. He feels like he needs to be at least sitting to deal with this. That and some wine, maybe. “I wasn’t fucking with this shitshow, okay, it’s fucked itself.”

“Why the fuck are you even working on this, then?” Enjolras shouts. 

Grantaire winces. “Why do I ever do anything?” He asks rhetorically. 

There’s a fraught, staticky moment of silence. “ _Sort yourself out_ ,” Enjolras growls, and hangs up.

  


*

  
Enjolras doesn’t get it, of course. He never does.  


*

  
With some research, a couple of phone calls he gets Eponine to make for him, and wrangling the number of instruments down via a pointedly polite but emphatic email to the MD, Grantaire gets the sound hire quotes to Enjolras within the next few days.

Kind of like a really passive-aggressive ‘fuck you’.

Strike the ‘kind of’.

  


*

  
It’s worth the look on Enjolras’s face, though; equal parts seething and confusion with a pinch of slight regret and quickly hidden surprise. It’s the latter that sends something curling sour and sharp through Grantaire’s chest, and cements his commitment to being the most nihilistic he’s ever been.  


*

  
"They want to kill us," Grantaire pronounces glumly from where he's performing "Portrait of the Young Artist as a Stage Weight" on a length of timber, providing a counterweight to where Enjolras is aggressively screwing another bit of timber to it.

The BARRICADES production team have decided to cut the multiple backdrops, Courfeyrac having informed them of the atmospheric uses of stage lighting. Instead, they now want avant-garde barricade-esque structures that can be moved on and off stage. Because Enjolras has very little restraint when he gets stuck into something, he’d agreed.

“The stage can’t be too bare,” Enjolras grits out. 

“A, there’s fucking steel deck. B, I was under the impression this was Brechtian.” 

“Not anymore,” Eponine sing-songs mockingly. Grantaire likes Eponine. 

Enjolras growls under his breath and viciously changes the screw bit for a drill bit.

  


*

  
“She’s a lovely person,” Courfeyrac says, clutching a coffee cup like it’s his lifeline. “And a fantastic director. But I swear to God, if I have to explain one more time why it will make my life very difficult if she wants the same location to appear in two different parts of the stage _I will blow the fuck up_.”

Marius trails disconsolately behind him into the Workshop. “Are you sure we can’t just add another two whatsitcalleds to some [LX](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/LX) bars?”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says, whirling around. His coat flies out dramatically behind him, coming close to catching Jehan in the eye. The draft also makes the sawdust on the floor swirl dramatically. “It’s hard to miss the fact that you’re stupid for Cosette, but that should not blind you to the untenability of your suggestion. There aren’t enough sockets on LX3, and especially not when we need those 2Ks for another scene.”

“Also,” Jehan adds, “That kind of thing confuses the audience.” 

Unrolling the lighting plan, Marius frowns at it for a whole minute before sighing. “Okay, I guess.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Courfeyrac says explosively, before sitting down next to Jehan and burying his face in his hands. Jehan pats him sympathetically on the shoulder, leaving sawdust-y handprints on his coat. 

“It’s a good thing you’re cute, Pontmercy,” Grantaire drawls.

Marius jumps. “R! What -- why are you sitting there?”

Grantaire’s sitting cross-legged in the only corner of the Workshop uncolonised by sawdust left, hunched over his laptop with a few books spread around him.

“Essay deadline tonight,” Grantaire says. “Sappho.” 

“Oh, yeah, you do Classics,” Marius says. “I always thought you were Fine Arts.”

Grantaire lifts a shoulder. “I was, and then I switched courses.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“Got boring.”

“R did Law before that,” Courfeyrac joins the conversation. “Didn’t you?”

“ _Really_?” Marius asks, astonished. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies. “I stuck with it for a term before I couldn’t be fucked anymore. It just got pointless.”

“And now he’s stuck with Classics because he doesn’t want to pay 9k a year,” Courfeyrac says. 

Grantaire shrugs. “At least it doesn’t pretend to be more useful than it is.” He slides his headphones on and resumes typing.

Marius turns to Courfeyrac and Jehan, eyebrows raised. “No wonder he gets on Enjolras’s nerves all the time. Law? Pointless?” 

Courfeyrac snorts. “I don’t think E knows about that. They’re not that close. Anyway, enough gossipping. Come and help us with this.”

  


*

  
Four days to the start of production week, Enjolras has another meeting with Cosette & co.

"I convinced them that having a reconstruction of a street would be wrong. Now they want to paint the stage red and black.” Enjolras informs them while idly pushing one of the avant-garde barricade-esque structures back and forth on its squeaky wheels.

"Oh," Grantaire says sarcastically, from where he's sketching out the barricade facade in chalk on the plywood. "Great. To match my rage and despair at their COMPLETE AND UTTER INSANITY."

"I told them the theatre wouldn't allow it anyway," Enjolras tells him. "It's a cool idea, though. Symbolic."

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire replies.

“What?” Enjolras snaps. If he were the sort to he’d probably sound hurt.

“No, it’s not -- we’ve screwed the plywood on fireproof stamp side up. We’re going to be painting over it.”

Marius and Eponine turn slowly to look at the façade with dawning horror.

Grantaire stares at where his painstaking sketches intersect with the all-important fireproof stamps. 

“I need a drink.”

  


*

  
The ensuing argument (“Why is that your recourse to everything?” “Are you fucking kidding me?” “No, you fucking drunkard, you have a show to tech tonight too.” “Fuck you!”) ends with Grantaire storming out of the Workshop and Enjolras almost shaking with fury.

Combeferre comes in at that point, shaking snow from his hair. “I just saw R go past looking like shit.” 

Enjolras looks away, at the façade. 

“Enjolras?” 

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras says tightly. “Anyway, it’s just that one panel and the one next to it. We’ll have to cut them again, there should be enough ply from the scrapped street. Can some people get the jigsaw out? And I’ll --”

“He’s not wearing a coat or anything, E,” Combeferre says, a hand on his arm, the corners of his eyes tight with worry. “And it’s snowing.”

Enjolras looks out the door. It is snowing; flat white flakes coming down thick and fast. He can’t afford his sound designer getting pneumonia now, of all times.

“Fine,” Enjolras says. “You take those bits of ply off. I’ll go.”

  


*

  
Enjolras finds Grantaire in what someone who was trying to be kind would call a dive.

He’s sulking in a corner with a glass of Coke. 

“Your coat,” Enjolras says stiffly, and drops it on Grantaire’s lap. “And your scarf.” 

There’s a gleam of surprise in his eyes, before they cloud over again. “Thanks.” 

“No drink?” Enjolras can’t help but ask.

Grantaire laughs bitterly. “I left my ID in my coat pocket. Bartender wouldn’t believe me when I said I was definitely over 18.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire’s face carefully; sees the sharpness of it under his stubble and the mournful wideness of his eyes. He smirks, “I can see why he didn’t.”

“I hate you,” Grantaire says, shrugging his coat on, winding his scarf round his neck.

“No you don’t,” Enjolras retorts unthinkingly.

Grantaire gives him a long look, before standing up and draining the rest of his Coke. 

“No,” he says softly, “I suppose I don’t.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, and follows Grantaire mutely out of the pub.

  


*

  
When Enjolras comes into the Workshop late next morning, Grantaire’s already there, mixing paints.

“Oh, hey,” Enjolras says, sounding surprised.

Grantaire tilts him a wry smile. “Morning.”

He has the good grace to look momentarily chastened, before moving on. “Do you need help with that?”

Snorting loudly, Grantaire says, “Enjolras, you are many things but I wouldn’t trust you to draw your way out of a paper bag.”

“I could do the base coats,” Enjolras says, stung. “Mix paints.”

It’s almost endearing. “I haven’t really decided on what colours things are going to be yet,” Grantaire says, absent-mindedly adding a dollop of white to his palette -- a scavenged bit of plywood. “Isn’t there anything not a surrealist barricade that has to be painted?” 

There’s a pause. “I have to make a window frame,” Enjolras says reluctantly. “And protest signs.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “That ought to be right up your alley.”

“These protest signs have to say things like GIRAFFES ARE FOREVER and NO TEA ONLY PRINTERS.” Enjolras’s tone reaches impressive levels of deadpan. 

“Well, they _are_ endangered animals,” Grantaire says, eyes crinkling. 

Enjolras makes the most delicious sound of exasperation. “Come on, Grantaire, be serious. They’ve moved past surrealism into just pure mockery of revolutionary ideals.”

“Oh, no,” says Grantaire, “I’m wild, just like the West African giraffe.”

“Somehow,” Enjolras says, “I feel the motivation to saw some wood now.”

  


*

  
When they break for lunch, Grantaire’s acquired streaks of paint up his forearms and colourful handprints all over his clothes. Enjolras spends five minutes trying to pick sawdust out of the cuffs of his pullover.

“Where the hell is everyone,” Enjolras demands, thumbing through his phone angrily.

Grantaire sighs, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He leaves patches of bottle-green and dull red behind. “Lectures? Recovering from _Hair_ ’s opening night?”

“Ah,” Enjolras says, realisation visibly dawning. He gives Grantaire a conflicted look. “Do you need to --?”

“I’ll crash on Sunday or something,” Grantaire waves a hand. “You need this done asap, don’t you?”

Bless his soul, Enjolras continues to look conflicted. “Well yes, but ...”

“So let me just do this, yeah?” Grantaire says easily. “Don’t know why you’re arguing.” 

“I’m not heartless,” Enjolras tells him, looking cross. “If you need rest I’m not going to --”

Grantaire interrupts, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Fuck’s sake, R,” sighs Enjolras, throwing his hands up. “I do actually care about you.”

“Is that what it is?” asks Grantaire, tipping his head innocently to one side, hiding the sudden loudness of his heart in his ears. 

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras snaps, and pulls his lunch closer to him. “Fine, do what you want.”

  


*

  
What Grantaire _wants_ to do is irrelevant here, of course. What he does do is to paint feverishly; swathes and delicate lines in colours bright and dull, twisting shapes melting from chairs into wardrobes, clocks into bayonets -- the façade is a delirious, sinuous mass of shapes that confuse the eye and unsettle the stomach.

“Jesus,” Enjolras breathes, when he looks up from his book. “That might actually make me sick.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says dryly.

“No,” says Enjolras sharply. “No, it’s good.” 

Grantaire paints layers upon layers, highlights and blends and takes breaks only to suck frantically at cigarettes outside before coming back in to start again. Dinner happens only because his stomach makes a truly hideous noise, and then he sways when he steps back to squint at the main section of the façade, already mostly finished. Enjolras catches him by the elbow and is glaring when the black spots fade out of Grantaire’s vision.

  


*

  
He feels Enjolras’s eyes on his back, an itch between his shoulders, when he resumes the painting.

After Enjolras finally curls up on his side, on a pile of haphazardly folded black tat, Grantaire scores things meant to be sweet and light and happy into the dried layers of paint and fills them in with black, humming the Stones under his breath.

  


*

  
“That looks _amazing_.”

Enjolras and Grantaire both groan at the same time, and sit up.

“Oh my god,” Cosette says. “Did you guys sleep here over night?” 

“Try work here over night,” Grantaire rasps out, and swallows painfully. He can just about remember falling over onto the tat and then blacking out. 

“You guys are amazing,” Cosette says sincerely. “I really appreciate what you do for us. This looks so great.” 

Grantaire opens his mouth but Enjolras gets there first. “Thanks, Cosette. Is there anything you wanted?”

“Oh,” she says, hand fluttering to her mouth. “No, I just came to see how it was going. It’s looking fantastic.”

“Glad you think so,” Grantaire rumbles, and rolls painfully off the tat onto the floor. When he stands up there is sawdust all down his side and in his hair. “Where’s my water?”

Enjolras leans down the other side of the tat, locating a bottle of water, and throwing it to Grantaire. 

“Well, we should probably go home to shower and eat,” Enjolras says.

“Of course!” Cosette replies. “I was just, well, I need to finish some props off ... is it okay if I do it in here? There’s spray paint involved and my flatmate’s started complaining about fumes.”

They both blink blearily at her. 

“Props,” Enjolras says. “Oh, yes. Combeferre needs the props list. You can stay here. Masks are over there. Marius’ll be in at ... what time is it now? Ten. Christ. He’ll be here in about half an hour.” 

“Ta,” Cosette says, and puts down the overstuffed tote bag she’s been carrying on one shoulder. “Um, are you guys leaving now?”

Enjolras looks back up at her from the floor, where he’d zoned out into staring at. Grantaire hides a smile behind a gloved hand; he’s already got his coat and scarf on. 

Giving himself a shake, Enjolras goes to the coat rack to get his coat. “Yeah, we are. See you later, Cosette.”

“Have a good rest,” she says, already pulling out oddly-shaped bits of prop from her bag.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, pulling his beanie on and the door shut behind him.

  


*

  
In the aftermath of Enjolras and Grantaire’s all-nighter, Combeferre makes everyone take an enforced break from Saturday night to Sunday afternoon.

Which, of course, means that at 5pm on Sunday, Combeferre is manically drawing out the [stage plot](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/stage+plot), Enjolras is painting the last few avant-garde barricade-esque structures, and Marius is nervously cutting lighting gels according to specifications Courfeyrac found on Google.

“I really hope these are right,” Marius says.

“Of course they are, I’ve used this site before,” Courfeyrac says easily.

“It is 11 1Ks for the [789](http://www.leefilters.com/lighting/colour-details.html#789&filter=cf), right?” Marius asks. 

“That the red? Yeah, and oh -- shit, we want that for the mids, too.”

Marius squints at the gel rolls. “On the lanterns on the [booms](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/boomerang)? I think we calculated for that when we ordered the gels.”

“I still think we should’ve used [Marius Red](http://www.leefilters.com/lighting/colour-details.html#787&filter=cf),” says Grantaire.

Marius gives Grantaire a pained look. “Hahaha no.”

“It would’ve been hilarious, though!”

“Shut up and count microphones or whatever it is you do, R,” Courfeyrac says, giving him a nudge with his foot.

Eponine comes through the doors, then, and Grantaire shouts, “MIC PLOT!”

“Why are you shouting at me?” She asks acidly. “I’ve just come off a double-shift at work; there is to be no shouting at Eponine.” 

“Mic plot,” Grantaire says loudly. “Where is the mic plot?”

“I don’t know,” Eponine shrugs off her coat. “Hasn’t Cosette emailed it to you?” 

“She emailed me a list of people who have to be mic’d,” says Grantaire. “That is not a mic plot.”

Enjolras sighs, and everyone steels themselves for some more shouting. 

To their surprise, he just says, “It’s not that complicated anyway. Can you just show Eponine how to do one?”

Grantaire, too, looks surprised -- but only momentarily, before he smiles. “Sure.”

  


*

  


“I miss Bahorel’s freak strength,” Courfeyrac says woefully, as they watch the others struggle with putting up the steel deck. “Where is he when we need him?”

“Writing all the essays he didn’t last week,” Grantaire says. “Or recovering from the drinking we did yesterday night.”

“You’re not hungover,” Courfeyrac says accusingly. “You’re here.” 

Grantaire shrugs. “I didn’t have a choice about being here, mate.” 

Courfeyrac just gives him this look, like he knew all the levels at which Grantaire’s statement applied. 

“It’s my sound I have to get-in for,” Grantaire attempts to clarify.

“Of course it is,” says Courfeyrac, smirking. And then it falls off his face when he realises, “Oh shit, I need to focus [Advance](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/Advance+Bar) 2.” 

They both stare at the pit, which has already been lowered. Then they stare up at the bar in question, which sits right over the orchestra pit.

“Do you really need those [profiles](http://www.controlbooth.com/wiki/profile+spot)?” Grantaire asks. “Not that you have a choice, because I already have power running into the pit. And all kinds of stuff in the pit that should not be moved.”

“... I’ll improvise,” Courfeyrac mutters, and drags himself heavily off to tell Enjolras.

  


*

  


Things go more or less smoothly after that. There is a terrifying moment where part of Grantaire’s facade catches and bends dangerously on a corner as they stagger with it along the short distance from the Workshop to the theatre’s backstage area. 

But other than that, things go smoothly until the tech run, when Cosette somehow gets hold of a microphone. 

Eight cues in, Enjolras calls a general pause over comms to sort a generally gnarly bit out. And then he turns his microphone on and says, “We’re stopping to fix something,” before turning it back off. 

“Enjolras?” Cosette’s voice suddenly echoes around the empty auditorium while her cast chat loudly to each other on stage. “Can we do that again? I don’t think they got the cues right.”

“What is she saying? Why has she got a mic?” Enjolras asks. “Whatever, anyway, Jehan, your first fly cue comes here.”

“That’s the gauze going in right?”

“Yes, and--”

“Hello?” says Cosette. “Those colours didn’t look right, can we change that?”

“Seriously, why does she have Voice of God?” Enjolras says irritably. “Marius, talk to her. ...Marius? Are you on comms?”

“Marius, press the round button so we can hear you,” Combeferre adds.

“-uck, shit, sorry, I can’t remember how to change cues with this board!”

“You shouldn’t have to anyway since _we plotted yesterday night_ ,” Enjolras says. “Tell her to wait till after. Anyway, Jehan ...”

There’s a moment of blessed silence off-comms, and then -- “Uh, Enjolras? We really don’t like the colours, though.” 

Enjolras swears, before flicking his VOG on too. “Not. Now,” he intones. “Also, cast: places for A1S1, we’re going from the line ‘but why did Foucault eat all that marmalade’.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, back on comms. “Did everyone get what I said just now --”

He is interrupted by Cosette telling her cast where to stand on stage. Combeferre can see him losing it from the other wing. Enjolras loses it so hard he forgets to press the mic on his comms unit and so everyone only picks up on his rant halfway-through.

" -- FUCKING TELL HER TO SHUT UP -" 

"Not in front of the cast, Enjolras," Combeferre reminds him calmly.

Eponine comes in clear and curious. "Should I cut her VOG?"

"Yes. Yes, cut it NOW."

Eponine gleefully mutes Cosette's mic, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"Oh, that was beautiful. It warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart,” Eponine says.

"Oh ... she's coming towards us now," Marius says. 

"Brace yourself, Marius," Combeferre murmurs.

"I think I’m just going to get rid of this mic altogether," Eponine says casually.

"Wait,” Enjolras says. “Why are you the one -- where's Grantaire?"

"Oh, he popped out to get a drink."

"HE WHAT? A DRINK? WHAT IS THIS, AMATEUR TIME?"

"No wait," Marius cuts in, "he's coming back in and he's only got a water bottle in his hand ... and Cosette's gone over to talk to him. Oh they're coming here now ... shit... shit... what am I going to say."

"You say nothing," Enjolras orders.

Eponine says, "Okay, going off comms to give Grantaire--"

"Not Grantaire, Cosette's getting the comms from R," Marius fills in for the now comms-less Eponine.

"Hello, Enjolras," Cosette says sweetly.

"Hello, Cosette," Enjolras replies rather less than sweetly.

Everyone is listening with rapt attention. It occurs to Marius that possibly the theatre technicians are also listening in from their office, but considering they're basically part of the family anyway, it probably doesn't matter.

"Is there a reason I was muted?" Cosette inquires, sweet as cyanide.

"Yes," Enjolras says. "I see now I was mistaken in not mentioning this in the first place, but the tech run is under my purview. It's for us to sort shit out and me to direct. You weren't supposed to have VOG, I don't know why you were given it in the first place --"

"Oh," Cosette interrupts, "Marius said I could have it when I asked."

Marius shrinks into his seat.

Eponine's glaring at him, but Grantaire's just leaning against the wall and smirking.

"I see, well, Marius is young and unlearned in the ways of theatre. Anyway, when you notice things, it would be most helpful if you wrote notes down and we went over it again after we finish the tech. And we can go back to those bits if there's time."

Cosette twirls the cable connecting the headset to the comms unit idly in a finger, her eyes narrowed.

"That sounds doable," she says. "Sorry about the confusion earlier."

"As long as it doesn't happen again," Enjolras says stiffly. Anyway, while Grantaire EQs the  
mics for the song after this, I'm going to go have a chat with your cast."

"Go for it," Cosette says, sounding amused, "bye!"

She hands the comms unit back to Grantaire with a "ta, love," and walks back down to the seats.

"R on comms," Grantaire says cheerfully, "what are we doing?"

"You're supposed to be EQing these guys on stage," Combeferre informs him.

"Okay," Grantaire says, and unmutes the mic Cosette returned to them.

"Guys on stage," his voice rolls out in a lazy drawl across the auditorium, "Can whoever has mic pack two sing a bit please? Thanks."

  


*

  
The week crashes headlong into opening night. When the rest of the crew get to the green room at six, Marius is already having an attack of the nerves in there while Enjolras tries and fails to calm him down. To be fair, repeatedly saying, “Calm down, stop it,” firmly has never been known to help. At least Enjolras seems to realise this, and he looks appealingly at Courfeyrac.

“Christ, E,” Courfeyrac says, amused, and kneels down next to Marius to start rubbing at his back. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but shoots him a grateful look nevertheless. “You’ll do fine, Marius, hey, hey.”

“I feel ill,” Marius says weakly, and gulps. 

“That’s fine,” Courfeyrac says soothingly. “Don’t worry about it, all right? The audience won’t even notice if you miss a cue or two. No one’s going to kill you if you make a mistake.”

The door swings open again and Grantaire slouches in, just in time to catch the last sentence. He raises an eyebrow and, eyes sliding quickly to Enjolras and back, asks archly, “Really?” 

“Oh god,” says Marius. “I don’t want to disappoint Cosette.”

Grantaire snorts out a laugh, and goes over to them. “The first time I did a show -- which was before any of these guys were even around -- half the radio mics went crazy during the show and I missed three sound effects trying to fix that.” 

“Is that supposed to make him feel better?” Enjolras asks, curious. 

A little colour’s actually returned to Marius’s face, and he says, “It does, actually. Are you really the oldest one here, R?”

Slouching into the sofa next to Enjolras, Grantaire laughs. “Probably. No, I lie, Joly was here too, and Bahorel. Wasn’t Bahorel doing his Masters when we were freshers, Joly?”

Joly looks up from his notes. “I think so. Or maybe he was in his last year of undergrad? You should know, he’s the one who got you into this.”

“Like Marius and me?” Eponine asks, having come into the room without anyone noticing at some point. She’s holding a paper cup of something. “Here, Marius, I brought you some tea from work.”

“Thanks, Ep,” Marius says gratefully. “You’re the best.”

He’s too busy sipping at the tea to notice Eponine’s quick flinch, which she covers neatly by cheerfully saying, “I’ve just known you for too long.”

“More like Marius and Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says wryly. “We met at a pub crawl and one thing led to another, and then I owed him a favour. And then he saw me do a thing for an event and dragged me to a meeting.” 

Enjolras looks up at that. “But you weren’t here in my first year.” 

“So you’ve been in the society for a long time, then?” Marius asks at the same time.

“What?” Grantaire looks back down at Marius. “Oh, uh, no, I did Bahorel’s show and buggered off. ”

“For about three years,” Joly says absently. “He only came back last year.”

Marius looks from Grantaire to Enjolras and back. “Oh,” he says. 

“Right,” Grantaire says abruptly, standing up. “I’m going to have a fag. Do you smoke, Marius?”

“Uh, no?” Marius says uncertainly.

“Shame,” says Grantaire. “It’s relaxing. See you at the tech booth.”

Enjolras has a strange expression on his face when he reminds Grantaire to be there before house opens, like he’s trying to puzzle something out.

“As you wish,” Grantaire says with a twist to his mouth, and the door swings shut behind him.

  


*

  
If Marius was jittering with nerves before Enjolras’s voice came clear and precise over comms with “We have clearance -- LX1, FX, Followspot, go,” then he’s positively jumping with adrenaline when tabs come down, house lights and music come up, and a bemused buzz swells as the audience comes to the realisation that the show is over.

“Oh my god,” he says in a rush, turning to grin wildly at Grantaire and Eponine. “That was _great_.”

Eponine smiles involuntarily back at him; even Grantaire can’t quite suppress a grin. 

“Told you you’d be fine,” Courfeyrac cries, swinging round the seats and coming into the tech booth. He cuffs Marius fondly on the shoulder. “The director seems very pleased.”

She _is_ very pleased, as she makes her way up the auditorium to them, arms spread and face shining with her joy. “That was so great, you guys, it looked fucking _awesome_!” 

Marius ducks his head, going red. “Thanks,” he says to the lighting desk. Cosette beams at his mop of hair. 

On the other side of the tech booth, Eponine rolls her eyes and turns away from them to talk to Combeferre and Jehan on comms. Grantaire pats her on the shoulder. 

“Are you guys coming for drinks?” Cosette asks. “We’ll be in the Union bar, tonight.”

“Yes!” says Marius.

Eponine looks torn. “I’ve got a shift at work tomorrow morning ...”

“Oh,” Cosette says, looking a little disappointed. “Do come, or else it’ll be a sausage fest with just me and Manon and Julie with all the boys.” 

“It will be one anyway,” Eponine mutters, then raises her voice. “Yeah, okay, just one pint though.”

“I definitely need a drink,” Grantaire says, smiling. 

“Enjolras says he has too much work to do,” Marius reports, “and ... so does everyone else. I guess it’s a tech booth only thing, then.”

“The cool booth,” Cosette smiles at them.

Marius blushes harder.

  


*

  
Friday and Saturday are weird, in that being outside the theatre during day time feels a bit like a waking dream.

Marius finds himself sitting in the green room after his late morning lecture on Friday afternoon, and the rest of the Amis crewing the show come trickling in throughout the day. Only Grantaire shows up at six exactly, and he disappears at precisely quarter to seven to smoke his customary pre-show fag. 

He’s joined outside stage door by Marius during the interval on Saturday night, who shivers incessantly in his anorak.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Decided to take up smoking?” 

“No,” Marius chatters out. “Just thought you might like the company.” 

Smoke curls out of Grantaire’s mouth as he regards Marius curiously. It doesn’t look too dissimilar to the white breath Marius blows out as he hops a little in place. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, before drawing in another lungful of smoke.

“Did you know Cosette’s dad runs this place?” Marius asks.

He’s given an amused glance. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Marius says, sounding disappointed for a bit. “Apparently the afterparty’s going to be in his basement. Cosette says it’s big enough for everyone, though her dad wants us to be gone by 1am.” 

"If you think we're going to be done with the get-out before the afterparty moves on, you are sadly delusional," Grantaire tells Marius, before dropping the fag and stamping it out under his heel. 

“Oh,” Marius says sadly. 

“Don’t worry,” says Grantaire, holding stage door open for Marius. “We’ll have our own party at your place, you can invite Cosette.”

The look that Marius gives him is almost obscenely grateful.

*

It’s two in the morning by the time they file tiredly out of stage door.

“I am so tired,” Eponine sighs, drooping. “I’m going to sleep all day long tomorrow.” 

“But tonight,” declares Courfeyrac, throwing an arm around her. “Tonight we party!”

  


*

  
Courfeyrac digs a crate of festoon lights out from somewhere in his flat, so that the living room is atmospherically lit, shadows flung into the centre of the room from the bulbs lining the walls. Jehan makes a brave attempt at stringing some festoon across the living room, from the bookshelf to the breakfast bar, but Joly walks straight into a lightbulb and starts having hysterics. They make do with clustering along the walls, with much drunken giggling when someone decides to bravely sally forth across the great darkness to the other side of the room.

Enjolras, not quite ready to relinquish the mantle of production manager just yet, goes from person to person, drawing them aside to thank them personally. This draws out, more often than not, into a lengthy chat, as the party progresses and people get drunker.

Grantaire, sprawled out in a wicker chair shaped like a shell and cuddled up with the bottle of Grey Goose he got from Cosette as a thank you present, watches Enjolras make his slow circuit of the room.

He's got a few fingers of it left by the time Enjolras makes it to him, and is watching lazily from under his lashes as he flicks a hand in weary imitation of a salute. 

There's no recrimination on Enjolras's face, not like there usually is when Grantaire's obviously been drinking. There's a nice, alcoholic flush on his fair skin instead, and Grantaire finds himself itching to paint that, the way the red brings out the blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair.

"Hey, R," Enjolras says, a drawl in his voice. He has a bottle of wine in his hand and places it with the exaggerated care of the very tipsy on the floor next to the armchair.

"Hey," Grantaire replies, and shuffles over. "Want to sit?"

"Hmm," Enjolras visibly mulls it over, before shrugging. "Okay."

Enjolras is a long solid line of heat flush against Grantaire's side as he half-folds, half-collapses into the chair.

"So," Grantaire prompts, trying to sound casual.

"Thank you for everything," Enjolras says immediately, and warmly. "We couldn't have done this without you."

"Well," Grantaire says, pushing down on the warmth that's welling up in his chest. "Eponine would've --"

"No, no," Enjolras interrupts. "I, uh, I was really glad you were with us for this. And I'm sorry about that time I yelled at you, because I don't remember a time when you weren't there when I needed some help."

He looks so fucking earnest, and so fucking drunk. All Grantaire wants to do is go hide under something and down the rest of his vodka, because he can't deal with this honest appreciation. He's wanted this for so long, and now he has it, it hurts.

"Uh," he says. "It was no problem, trust me." 

"I'm glad I saved you for the last," Enjolras says, apropos of nothing. "So I could take the most time doing this without -- without having to think about someone else."

"Thank me?" Grantaire asks nervously.

Enjolras blinks slowly at him, and then he puts a hand on Grantaire's face. Grantaire immediately regrets not shaving for the last few days.

"No, idiot," Enjolras tells him, before swaying closer. Grantaire has about a second to have a panic attack before Enjolras's lips meet his in a sloppy, awfully-angled kiss.

Their noses bump and Enjolras almost falls out of the armchair, but then Grantaire pulls him back in with a hand on his waist and that changes up the angle somehow so the kiss works better. He's still panicking in the back of his mind when Enjolras makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and his hands slide into Grantaire's hair.

Grantaire immediately regrets not showering the night before.

When Enjolras pulls back from mauling Grantaire's face with his own, he's partway into Grantaire's lap and has the beginnings of beard burn on his ridiculously fair skin.

"Okay," Grantaire breathes out, still slightly shell-shocked and to reassure himself. Enjolras full-on beams at him, which is ... new. Grantaire wonders how much Enjolras has had to drink, and how much he''ll remember tomorrow.

"Good to know," Enjolras tells him, and slides off his lap to stand up. He doesn't fall over, which is a good start.

"Is this a kiss and run?" Grantaire asks, only half-kidding.

Enjolras frowns at him and holds a hand out. "No. I think Courf's spare room is unoccupied, and you shouldn't fall asleep in there."

Grantaire's brain short-circuits a bit when he puts together what Enjolras is trying to say.

When it comes back online Enjolras is still looking at him expectantly.

He's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, at this point, so he takes Enjolras's hand and stands up.

The bedroom does turn out to be unoccupied. Enjolras pulls Grantaire in after him; the door clicks shut behind Grantaire’s back as Enjolras pushes him up against it, ducking in for a quick kiss and drawing away before Grantaire can get his bearings again.

And then Enjolras starts stripping casually on the way to the bed, leaving a trail of hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, and socks behind him before climbing under the duvet and giving Grantaire an expectant look. 

Grantaire kind of stands next to the bed in shock.

"I don't bite," Enjolras says impatiently. "Get in."

"Maybe I want you to," Grantaire retorts before his brain can stop him, but the mortification does get him to start undressing so he doesn't have to see Enjolras's face. He keeps his t-shirt on. Just in case.

When he finally gets gingerly into bed and folds his arms atop them, pious as a nun, he stares resolutely up at the ceiling. Until he hears an impatient snort and then Enjolras's face suddenly looms over his own. He looks ridiculously smug.

The sad remains of Grantaire's sense of self-preservation make a last-ditch effort then, and he pushes Enjolras back down.

"Please don't kiss me until you wake up tomorrow," Grantaire asks, his eyes fixed on the roof.

"I'm not that drunk," Enjolras says petulantly.

_You're being petulant_ , Grantaire does not say hysterically.

"Please," Grantaire whispers instead, his fingers clenched in the duvet cover.

There's a pause, and then Enjolras shifts away with a sigh. Grantaire's heart plummets, until there's a _click_ and the room is plunged into darkness and the bed dips again near him.

"Okay," Enjolras says, and rolls even closer. Grantaire isn't sure how he's going to fall asleep when Enjolras insists on _cuddling_ him, but Enjolras's breath evens out pretty quickly, leaving Grantaire desperately wishing for the vodka he'd left outside.

  


*

  
His neck feels wet and like some unspecifiable dream sea animal is attacking it, which is weird because as far as he could recall he'd been having a nightmare about a missing cable from the sound hire. Dream Enjolras's fury is what jerks Grantaire into wakefulness, so he can't be blamed for yelping when he realises that Actual Enjolras is making out with his neck.

Enjolras laughs wetly and bites his way up the stubbled underside of Grantaire’s jaw, pausing to suck a bruising kiss into the soft skin under his ear. Grantaire can’t help the way his hands slide themselves up Enjolras’s back or the way his hips buck. 

"You are going to kill me," Grantaire says bleakly, to cover up the hysterical glee bubbling up in his chest at the way Enjolras is half-lying on him and the way their legs are entwined.

Enjolras -- Enjolras _shimmies_ his way up to look at Grantaire in the eyes, and Grantaire feels every inch of that shimmy. Enjolras’s eyes are soft, even as he has a milder version of his semi-permanent look of frustration on his face as he says, “Shut up,” and makes Grantaire do so.

  


*

  
(They’re still making out when Marius opens the door -- because of course they were in his bed; Courfeyrac didn’t have a spare room anymore, Enjolras forgot -- and shouts loud enough to wake the dead.) 

***

  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's what I think I didn't find links to in the text, if anyone is at all interested:
> 
> LX - lighting; with numbers (e.g. LX2) it refers to the [fly](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fly_system) bar to which lighting fixtures (lanterns) are attached  
> 1Ks/2Ks - refers to fresnels that run off different power. Fresnels a kind of lantern that provide washes of light across the stage.  
> Mic plot - a way to keep track of actors switching mics between scenes  
> tat - (literally) bits of drapery that have become tatty. Usually heavy black cloth used to hide things on stage so light doesn't shine through.


End file.
